Prologue

 

"So how was I?"

"Sufficient, if you're referring to getting yourself off."

"Oh, come on Edie. You know what I'm talking about."

"Yes. You want a recap of your sexual prowess... since you can't remember a thing."

Though the rebuking words come softly, my wife's disappointment is evident. As she steps to the kitchen counter for the coffee pot, I quickly reach into the pocket of my robe to find another aspirin. Head pounding, of late the analgesic has become a regular part of my breakfast. Though wife Edie has given up lecturing on my drinking, I sneak another 350 milligrams without drawing notice to avoid more rebuke.

"The clock ticks, Mort. You could... well... slow down for a night... when you know... the timing..."

Yes, in approaching age 27 and of much desire to have a child, Edie meticulously records her cycle. Last night was the peak in terms of ovulating and I was the beneficiary of very attentive fingers, hands and foreplay. Unfortunately for her plans I was beforehand also the beneficiary of much single malt Scotch.

She returns to the table. As she pours me another cup, I reach forth and tenderly smooth my hand on a shapely right cheek. Edie stays fit, the flesh firm, the muscling supple.

"Don't bother, Mort. You know you'll need a few days to reload."

Damn the cogent advice of the fertility clinic, apprizing that the male reproduction system for a man my age requires longer and longer intervals for restoring the spermatozoa count. So in advising that I'll need to reload, I must assume I indeed got off.

"So... ah... you don't think... you were..."

"Impregnated? Mort you have to come in me... not on me."

"So my performance..."

"Great for the first ten seconds, then you passed out, went limp and little Mort oozed a nice load on my inner thighs."

Edie likes to ride. Cowgirl style she terms it. I have learned to cede to it, meekly lying supine as her exquisite hand work brings little Mort to full blossom. She knows the male anatomy... touching and stroking the right spots such that any thoughts of fellatio seem superfluous. Yes, mounting and straddling me in a way suits my condition. Too many nights of lovemaking are preceded by visits from Mr. Glen Fiddich thus inhibiting physical exertion on my part.

With the disappointment obviously transcending to anger, I return to silence, realizing more words can only bring more scolding... gentle... but scolding all the same.

And Edie is right, I should lay off the booze. Yet the anesthesia of alcohol seems to dull the wounds... slow the cascade of thoughts over life's missed opportunities, quashed aspirations. It's the workplace, I've so many times told myself. A promising early career has led to being side lined. My title of Sales Administrator really nothing more than a clerical function.... highly paid yes... but a function with no ability to demonstrate skills over and above assembling numbers.

While Boss Lady Martina's crack sales team functions like a championship ball club, I merely keep score.

Adding to the frustration is my boss and her relationship with wife Edie. Edie's mother and the Boss Lady were close friends. After her Mom's untimely death, Martina has stepped into the role of confidante... a defacto mother-daughter relationship. There is much exchange of information over my performance... job related and otherwise.

Breakfast consumed, Edie steps away. As I finish my coffee, planning a leisurely Saturday morning of hangover recovery reading the sports section and later an afternoon of baseball, I hear Edie on the back porch, speaking on her cell phone.

It's for sure Boss Lady Martina. And she is being informed of my pusillanimous sexual effort. Yes the relationship is that close.

Heading for the stairs and a shower, I hear the blunt words the fairer sex is known to exchange when not in mixed company...

"Yeah Martina, he passed out... his little thing dribbling all over me..."

I need a drink.

Reflections

 

Trying to focus on the box scores, I find my mind wandering. I try not to think of my performance... both job and husbandly duties. But Edie remains on the cell phone and though I cannot hear the words there comes laughter, the Boss Lady always able to bring cheer.

But it irritates, imagining the women making comparisons... bad in bed... bad on the job. And with the two so close it is a certainty that Boss Lady Martina has divulged elements of her firm supervision in the office and her quirky manner of correcting behavior.

'Corner time' is frequent, errors on the sales forecast sheets earning an hour humbly standing in her office while in a maternal tone of voice she calmly lectures about attention to detail and fastidiousness.

Am I the only employee to be chastised as a child? I dare not ask my cohorts. How does one broach the subject at the water cooler or over end-of-the-day cocktails at the nearby pub.

Any one of you guys been made to stand in the corner in the Boss Lady's office?

I can hear the guffaws as I am cross examined about the derivation of the query.

The thoughts lead to a memories of most telling exchange which though years ago continues to bring horripilation... and an odd glimmer of faint yet unexplained arousal.

Exiting the lavatory, Boss Lady Martina passed me in the hallway then called out after me, demanding I immediately report to her in her office. I was new at the job, aware of her reputation... her sobriquet of 'Martina the Martinet'.

It was to be my first corner time and though concerned with the demand, I consoled myself that as my mother-in-law's close friend whatever the issue, it would not be fatal to continuing employment.

Well, entering her office I was told that I needed to zip up my slacks, an oversight in having used the facilities.

'It's the second time Mortimer. I overlooked the first, but it's slovenly male conduct and you must be disciplined.'

So it was to the corner, eyes glued to the latex paint.

As I zipped up as furtively as possible, there came instructions... arms behind, hands to be remain folded at the small of my back... and a stern warning.

'It must be a Freudian thing with you, Mortimer. If you so much desire to expose yourself to women then next time I'll have you standing facing me, zipper open with your penis dangling in full view in the room light.'

That triggered something. I felt myself hardening during the otherwise tedious and quiet hour. Such provocative words. It was strange to feel grateful in facing the wall, the resulting bulge undetected. But then the Boss Lady broke to the eerie silence. It was as if she knew, her timing amazing.

'You may turn and face me now, Mortimer... you naughty boy.'

How could I disobey? Yet how could I display the obvious bulge... my sordid male reaction to a woman's firm governing words?

I turned. With hands at my back it felt as though my erection was spearing across the Boss Lady's office. My perverse reaction to her firm governance was apparent.

'Well... it appears it would not be dangling, Mortimer...'

Why years later do I feel subtle twinges in recalling the incident as I relax, ostensibly reviewing last night's game summaries?

"Mortimer," wife Edie entering the den, aware that using my full name... not Mort... draws full attention. "Martina and I have been talking. She's both caring and resourceful... so it was easy to have you placed on a sabbatical. Sick pay provided plus the cost of therapy covered by the company health plan."

Of course in being responsible for the mountain of bills, the disclosure immediately brings my mind to the financial side... not the who, what, why and how of a 'sabbatical'.

"Sick pay is meager, Edie. Nowhere near full salary. And what..."

"I have not touched mother's inheritance money. It will be put to the best possible use. You will dry out... and I will have a baby. Or I can simply have Martina fire you. So don't argue. And she recommended a very suitable place. She says you'll be happy there. I think she knows you better than you think, Mort... perhaps better than you know yourself. Something about letting me fuck you cowgirl style she finds quite telling."

Or... perhaps the bulge. Yes, there have been other incidents leading to corner time in the Boss Lady's office. I've since managed to remain more flaccid. But then come the twinges... and she knows!

Then it occurs... if the long phone conversation detailed elements of my sexual performance... or lack thereof... why would not the Boss Lady inform of her demands for corner time and my tumescent reaction to feminine authority?